


Castaway

by BMP



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-ATF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-06
Updated: 2011-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:19:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BMP/pseuds/BMP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The other side of "Refugee".  This time it's Buck's story.  Still Pre-ATF and still totally self-serving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Castaway

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to GSister for beta-ing, encouraging, and all around nagging. Without her patience and insistence, these stories would never have been. Much more thanks to V., who is both patient and tenacious.
> 
> This is a companion to Refugee, [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/124798) ,  
> but you need not have read the one to enjoy the other.

**Castaway**

          He should have seen it coming.  He was a trained investigator.  If anyone should have seen the signs, Buck Wilmington should have. 

          Except he was probably too close to events to be objective.  Or had been preoccupied and missed the signs.  Most likely he had forgotten something he had no business forgetting:  Chris Larabee knew Buck Wilmington too well. 

          And Larabee used that against him.

          The reasons didn't make it any less painful to see Wilmington standing flummoxed in front of that empty desk.  Or to watch that confused and complicated tangle of emotions dance over his face. 

          Denver P.D. Captain Pete Bryson had considered stepping in a week and a half ago.  He chose not to.  He told himself it wasn't really his business.  But really he had been busy convincing himself he wouldn't have to intervene.  It would surely take care of itself.  Larabee wasn't devious enough or ruthless enough to pull it off, and Wilmington was just too sharp not to see it coming. 

          It was done.

          And Detective First Class Buck Wilmington never had a clue.

          Bryson sighed.  He'd lost count of the number of times such a sigh had escaped him in the last several months.  At least he had prepared the man standing behind him, as best he could anyway, for what he was stepping into.

          When Bryson saw Wilmington's expression evolve into something that looked less like fury and more like fear, he cleared his throat determinedly and stepped forward, waving the man behind him to come along with him .

          The bullpen was uncharacteristically silent, as Bryson did the introductions, determinedly ignoring the staring eyes surrounding them and the way Wilmington's face was full of other questions, other concerns.  Bryson didn't give him a chance to voice them.  Not here in the middle of the bullpen. 

          "This is Sergeant Dave Elkins," Bryson said.  "He's a decorated veteran patrolman.  Just earned his detective's shield.  I want you to show him the ropes."

          Wilmington's eyes darted back to the empty desk, and Bryson said a little more firmly, so there could be no mistake, "He's your new partner."

          Wilmington stood there with his mouth open.

          Feet shuffled suddenly and papers rustled in the bullpen behind them.

          Elkins stood there looking friendly and, no doubt, feeling stupid.

          Bryson steeled himself.  There was too much work to do.  Homicide didn't observe holidays.  But there was no point putting off what was inevitable.

          He hadn't expected this to go smoothly.  How could it?

          "I'll be in my office," he said pointedly. 

          Bryson was not surprised when Wilmington left Elkins standing flat-footed in front of his shiny new desk and stalked him all the way to his office.  He was grateful Wilmington was willing to get behind a closed door before the shouting started.

          The tall detective slammed Bryson's office door hard enough to rattle the glass in its frame before rounding on Bryson and demanding to know, "Did you fire him? Or did you just convince him to quit?"

          His big hands were balled into fists. 

          Bryson's answer was calm and professional.  Point of fact, he had done neither, although he had no trouble understanding the detective's point of view.  "He resigned."

          Wilmington opened his mouth to respond, as if the disbelief written all over his face wasn't response enough. 

          "It was his own idea," Bryson continued evenly.  "And it was his decision."

          Buck's expression was anything but calm, countering, "But it was your decision to agree."  The voice got strident, accusing, "You know what's going on!  How could you just let him go?"

          Bryson sighed.  He had known he was going to face this moment, and he didn't relish it.  But a promise was a promise. 

          "Sit down, Buck," he said.  He didn't raise his voice, but it was an order nonetheless. 

          Wilmington bristled. 

          "I'm not going to stand here and argue with you," Bryson said determinedly.  "If you've got questions you want me to answer, then sit yourself down and look like you're going to listen to the answers.  Otherwise, come back when you're ready to listen.  We both have too much to do to waste time arguing about this."

          Wilmington glared at him a moment longer.  He seemed about to speak, but he didn't.  He pulled out a chair and dropped into it. 

          The man's body language didn't say "I'm listening", not by a longshot, but it was a start.

          Bryson might have preferred Wilmington had decided to come back later.  It would have given him more time to prepare the words he should have started preparing two weeks ago.

          He held up a hand to forestall what he foresaw as a veritable flood of questions as he rounded his own desk toward his chair, hoping the stalling tactic would give him a minute to think about what he could and could not say.

          "It was his decision," Bryson repeated, glad to have the distance of a desk between him and Wilmington. 

          "I offered him a number of alternatives," Bryson added, "but this is what Larabee wanted."

          Wilmington's precarious perch on the edge of the seat bespoke the tension mirrored in his eyes.  Something closer to fear than mere worry had begun to edge out the anger he had sailed in on. 

          As a rule, Bryson didn't like to meddle in the personal affairs of his employees.  It didn't mean he didn't care.  He just felt it was better for everyone if he stayed on the professional side of the fine line.  However, Larabee's was a case where personal crisis was taking the professional down the tubes with it.

          Bryson knew it.

          Larabee knew it.

          And if Wilmington didn't know it, he was a fool--which Bryson didn't believe for a moment. 

          However, Bryson was aware that matters between Larabee and Wilmington had always been personal.  They had come into the DPD as friends, brothers in arms, a bond already cemented in military service.  When they both applied for and made detective, it went against Bryson's better judgment to let them be partners.  The number of ensuing hijinks and headaches had confirmed his misgivings.  The success rate of confessions and closed cases had firmly denied them.

          It was painful to hear the way the words stuck when Wilmington spoke.  He forced them out anyway.  Forced Bryson to hear them.  "You know Chris is in a world of hurt.  Cutting him loose like this is the worst thing you could do!"

          Damned if Wilmington's voice didn't suddenly sound more pleading than accusing, but Bryson couldn’t say it was an improvement.  Nor did he like the way Wilmington looked like he might launch himself off that chair any second, held back only by his white-knuckle grip on the arms.  Not that Brsyon thought Wilmington would attack him.  But he wouldn't put it past him to empty out the squad room and mount up a search and rescue party—which was possibly the worst move Wilmington could make right now.

          Bryson kept his eyes calmly on Wilmington's and willed him to see reason.

          Instead, the detective's expression got a fraction darker and his knuckles got a fraction whiter. 

          Bryson wondered how he had ever deluded himself into thinking he was going to keep this conversation purely professional.

          He offered what reassurances he could.  "If it helps any," Bryson said, watching Wilmington's composure cracking around the edges, "Larabee did a lot of compromising before I accepted his resignation."

          It didn't look like it was helping.

          "He met all of my conditions."

          Wilmington's eyes went a little white at the edges as they flickered toward the door. 

          Bryson clenched his teeth briefly before throwing aside his security blanket of professionalism.  He cut to the heart of it. 

          "Chris is okay."

          Wilmington focused an incredulous stare on Bryson's face.  His hands convulsed on the arms of the chair and he fairly spluttered out, "Okay?  He's not okay.  You know he's not okay!  I can't believe you'd even sell me a line like that."

          "Depends on your definition of okay," Bryson interrupted.  He raised his voice to be heard before Buck got any further either in his speech or out of his chair. 

          "If your definition of okay is for things to be like they were before," he said sternly and winced inwardly at Wilmington's expression, but he was already in it up to his ankles, might as well keep going, "that isn't going to happen."

          Buck stiffened. 

          Bryson hadn't meant it to sound quite so blunt. 

          The detective's face froze into an expression that made Bryson want to bring the entire conversation to an abrupt end. 

          But he didn't.  He couldn't. 

          So he gentled his tone because he couldn't gentle the words.  They needed to be said.  "No matter how badly you or I or any of us wants to hold on to the past, and our places in it, we can't.  The only thing to do is move on."

          Up to his waist now and heading for deep water, Bryson's voice stayed firm.  "Larabee is moving on."

          "What does that mean?" Wilmington demanded.  He didn't yell, but the intensity in his voice made the office air seem to vibrate.  "Moving on how?  Where?"

          There were big jellyfish in these waters.  Getting stung was inevitable, but that didn't mean Bryson wasn't going to try to keep it to a minimum. 

          He delivered the news with carefully crafted, unassailable, unarguable, rational finality.  "I can't tell you that." 

          And professionally, he couldn't.  Professional guidelines prohibited him from disclosing that information.  He was glad to have more solid, professional ground to stand on. 

          Wilmington stared at him with disbelieving eyes.  His mouth formed a hard thin line beneath his mustache.

          The ground may have been solid, but Bryson felt the water rising.  He knew he had to tread carefully.  "He has a job.  That's all I can tell you."

          "All you _can_ tell me or all you're _willing_ to tell me?" Wilmington spat out reproachfully. 

          Bryson did not flinch.  "Both," he answered.  He did not look away from the hard glare. 

          "And you know this because…"  The statement hung, no mistaking the acid in the tone.   

          Bryson hesitated, reluctant to step further into the muck.  Afraid he'd be venturing into a riptide that sucked down everyone it touched.

          "I made him take the job." 

          Astonishment splashed across Wilmington's face.

          Bryson took a deep breath in case he went under and took another step.  "And I know he showed up today." 

          Astonishment mutated to betrayal.  Wilmington stuttered out something that Bryson couldn't quite catch and preferred not to. 

          Then just as suddenly, betrayal gave way.  Unexpectedly, it was hope that rose into Buck's face like a sunrise.  His hand darted toward his detective's notebook. 

          Bryson squashed the hope.  "Put that away," he snapped.

Buck's hand froze, notebook half in and half out from inside his jacket.

"Away," Bryson repeated. He let the "or else we're through here" hang in the air unspoken. Wilmington was smart. He could read a situation as well as anyone—and better than most.

          The detective waited, likely out of pure stubbornness, fixing eyes on Bryson that were decidedly cool.

          Bryson would not stand down.

          Silence hung for a long heartbeat before Wilmington gave in.  He shoved the notebook back into his jacket pocket. 

          "He took a job," Buck echoed.  Anger leached out of his voice.  He seemed to deflate with the realization.  Even his voice got smaller.  "You really aren't going to tell me where.  Are you?"  

          He shook his head.  No, he wasn't going to tell Buck where.

          The blue eyes were open wide now, revealing way too much. 

          An imagined whisper of tentacles slid across his flesh, and Bryson wished the man would go back to being angry. 

          He had always admired Larabee's effective use of silence.  He was not too old or too proud to learn a trick or two from his subordinates.

          He intended to wait Buck out.  Wait while his trained detective came to the inevitable conclusion. 

          He didn't count on the way Buck's entire face drooped downward as the truth began to sink in.

          So Bryson took another step in the deep, sucking mud.  One more step into the murk. 

          "He couldn't stay," Bryson said earnestly.  "Not after that fiasco in interrogation three weeks ago.  You had to drag him out of that room—on video for chrissakes.  His conduct was only getting worse.  I knew it.  He knew it.  And you knew it, too."  If only the man would acknowledge it.

          Wilmington sounded downright plaintive.  "You know how hard it's been.  You can't blame him for…"

          "Stop," Bryson thundered.  His hand clenched on his desktop.  He was holding out a life line for God's sake.  Why wouldn't Wilmington just take it?  "I know how rough this has been for him.  And I know how rough it's been for you.  Stop making excuses for him."

          The words seemed to echo in the tiny office.

          _Stop making excuses._ In the end, that might have been Larabee's saving grace.  He didn't try to excuse what he had done.  No rationalizations or laying the blame for his steadily worsening conduct both on and off the job on anyone or anything else—not even the heinous circumstances that allowed many of Larabee's fellow officers and detectives to just look away. 

          Chris Larabee had been startlingly clear-eyed and clear-headed that morning in Bryson's office, sitting in that very chair.  He spoke plainly, and didn't flinch from the hard truths. 

          It was the truths that gave Bryson the faith to counteroffer.

          Wilmington swallowed hard. 

          "You're a good detective," Bryson told him.  "You have a great future.  And Chris didn't want to take you down with him."

          Buck found his voice.  "That's bullshit," he answered hotly. 

          "Not my words," Bryson retorted just as hotly.  "That's what he said.  And he had a point.  You can tell yourself anything you want, and you can keep on believing it, but it wasn't going to get any better."

          Wilmington glared.

          Why did these men have to make everything so difficult?

          He couldn't make it much plainer.  But he did anyway.  If Wilmington was going to be stubborn, he could hear it straight out, no sugar-coating.  "How long did you think he could go on the way he was?  How long did you think the department would look the other way?  How bad did you think it had to get?" 

          Buck's whole body flinched.  His eyes darted away. 

          Bryson skewered him with it.  "He was self-destructing.  Personally, professionally, and purposefully."

          The blood drained out of Buck Wilmington's face and Bryson almost felt guilty.

          Wilmington opened his mouth to speak, and Bryson braced himself for one whopping mother of a sting. 

          Instead, Buck wilted. 

          He had known it all right. 

          But he hadn't wanted to accept it.

          Bryson watched the fight go right out of him.  And looked away—for both their sakes. 

          It stung like hell, all right. 

          There were no words Bryson could say to fix this.  No Captain-like words of wisdom changed the facts.   

          And in the end, Chris had realized that.  If the small row of therapists Larabee had raged through on the DPD's tab, had managed to get anything through the man's hard head, it was that the world had changed forever.  And this was the world he was living in now.  Whether he liked it or not.

          Bryson tried one more time to help Wilmington understand, too.

          Larabee had swallowed a hell of a lot of pride—maybe all of it—to come and ask Bryson to help him escape. 

          "He needed space, Buck."

          In return, Bryson had extracted a promise of his own.  On Chris's honor.  And it was solemnly given. 

          Buck's face fell.  "Why couldn't you give him more time off?"

          Bryson shouldn't have been surprised at the man's stubborn refusal to do anything the easy way.  He fought back his grimace.  "He needed space," Bryson repeated.  "Not just time."

          Bryson breathed through the sting, as dread filled the detective's face.  Wilmington whipped out his phone, fingers dialing even as he lifted it to his ear. 

          Bryson could hear the tell-tale tones and the faint, tinny recorded voice.  _This number has been disconnected._ He concentrated on his blank desk blotter as Wilmington tried another number.  The tones played again.

          Buck got his feet under him and bolted from the chair.

          He didn't get two steps.

          "Where are you going?" Bryson asked pointedly.

          Buck opened his mouth to answer and then shut it again, like a fish.  He had no answer.  It would have been comic if not for the expression in the man's eyes. 

          Larabee and Wilmington had leaned on each other for a long time.  Bryson had gathered enough to understand they had held each other afloat in some pretty deep waters. 

          It hadn't been easy for Chris to cast Buck adrift, to cut himself out of the net that was dragging him under.  But he had the courage to do it.  And Wilmington was going to have to dig down and find the courage to let Larabee kick to the surface on his own. 

          And Bryson was going to have to honor the promises he made. 

          "He's okay," Bryson repeated firmly.  "You're going to have to accept my word on that."

          He should have known better. 

          As Buck yanked the door open, Bryson made one last effort to make him see.  "You won't find him." 

          Buck froze at the door, hand on the knob, but his head whipped back around fixing Bryson with blazing eyes.

          "He's trying to save himself, Buck," Bryson said.  _And maybe you,too,_   he thought, but he didn't say it.  It should have been far too obvious that Wilmington would be better off without a rage-fueled and self-destructive loose-cannon shackled to his side.  Professionally, anyway.

          But it wasn't a professional Bryson was talking to right now.

          Wilmington was out the door like a shot.

          Bryson heard Elkins's distant squeak of surprise.  He wondered if Wilmington had dragged the man off with him or just run him over on his way to the car. 

          Then he waited and worked on paperwork and tried not to look at the clock.

          He counted nearly three hours before Wilmington returned.  He looked up to see the detective standing slump-shouldered in his office doorway without a word. 

          Bryson ushered the man back into the office and quietly closed the door. 

          Wilmington slumped in the chair, staring at his tightly clasped hands.  Still silent. 

          Bryson waited patiently. 

          Long seconds ticked by before Buck looked up again.  The blue eyes were as bleak as Bryson had ever seen them.  Even in the immediate aftermath of the murder of Larabee's family. 

          He could have told Wilmington then, the aftermath was far from over.  Maybe he should have.

          Bryson would have bet money—a lot of it—when Buck stormed out of his office that the man was headed right out to Chris's ranch to see for himself.  Bryson knew because it was what he would have done in Buck's place.  

          He would have won that bet.

          And if he had to guess, Bryson would have said the trip to the ranch was followed up by increasingly desperate stops into Chris's current favorite watering holes and an increasingly discouraging lack of success, until stubborn finally ran out. 

          Or cold hard reality set in.  And led Buck back here to this office and this chair. 

          Wilmington cleared his throat.  Twice.  Then he spoke with a voice dry and rough as brown November leaves.  "Do you really know where he is?"  He hesitated, and when he looked up it was Bryson's turn to swallow hard. 

          There was no pride in his face at all, just a bare plea.  "Is he really okay?"

          Buck Wilmington was a hell of a friend.  Bryson hoped Chris Larabee knew that.

          "He's got a job and an apartment."

          "But you ain't gonna tell me where."  It wasn't a question. 

          Bryson winced.  Winning the bet wasn't always good. 

          "He asked me not to."  __

It was hard to believe a man Wilmington's size could look so small.

          That stung like hell, too.  But conditions were conditions.  And promises were promises.  And he was going to keep up his end of it up.  So Larabee would keep up his end of it.

          _Professionally, you are better off without him right now._

          If only Buck didn't look so damn forlorn.

          Larabee had probably known it was going to be like this.  Probably why he left Bryson to deliver the bad news.  Coward. 

          Then again, Bryson would have done the same in Larabee's place—had he thought of it. 

          Looking at Wilmington now, Bryson knew he shouldn't have waited so long. 

          He reached out a hand to Buck's shoulder.  "He gave me his word," Bryson said, holding fast to keep Buck's attention.  "He gets time and space, and you get a clean slate and a fresh start."

          Wilmington's face told him he still hadn't answered the most important question. 

          So he did. 

          "And I get to check up on him to make sure he's living up to his end of the bargain."

          The blue eyes blinked away.

          Bryson looked discreetly toward the wall and waited. 

          On some level, Larabee had believed this was better for Buck.  He wasn't entirely wrong.  Professionally, Bryson, and whole lot of other officers and ranking staff in the DPD could agree. 

          But personally?  None of them had to sit here and deliver the bad news, including Chris Larabee himself.

          It was hard to get left behind with the rest of the baggage. 

          Bryson gave Wilmington credit for not asking again, for understanding that Bryson wasn't about to tell him anything more. 

          There was another long silence.  Finally, Wilmington choked out a backwards, left-handed request.  He wanted Bryson to keep him in the loop.  To let him know if for any reason, there was cause to think maybe Chris wasn't okay.  The words came out broken. 

          It was a bitter acceptance of a deal that had been brokered without him.

          Bryson nodded, of course.  He could do no less.  And it wouldn’t do any good to refuse anyway.

          Besides, Bryson consoled himself, if he knew Wilmington, Larabee's moment of space wasn't going to last long.  Buck Wilmington was a gifted investigator.  There was no doubt he would put those prodigious skills to use tracking Larabee down.

          No doubt, Larabee would have foreseen that, too.

          The silence dragged on.

          Bryson nudged Wilmington's foot.  "Larabee's working," he said finally.  "You should be, too."

          Wilmington's shoulders sagged just once more.  He chuffed out a hard sound that might have been a laugh but for the bitterness in it.  When his shoulders pulled back again, he turned a face toward Bryson that was all too skillfully neutral.      "Yes, Sir." 

          Then he was heading out the door, carefully avoiding Bryson's eyes. 

          A minute later, Wilmington's voice sounded in the bullpen, a satire of its normal self, jangling like an out-of-tune string on a banjo.  Bryson winced.

          Mariah Jewett shared a glance with her partner, Ray Ferrante, a relatively new addition to the squad, but a quick study in reading people. 

          Elkins, who was no slouch either, was probably going to continue wearing that apprehensive look for days, Bryson thought unhappily.

          Fred Davis, a hard-line old-timer, stared suspiciously in Buck's direction before turning toward Bryson's office. 

          Ignoring Davis, Bryson watched long enough to see Wilmington begin instructing Elkins on some daily procedure. 

          The picture of calm, attentive professionalism.  Bryson didn't miss how Buck's put-on cheerful tone floated so easily back to his office.  Aimed at him like the business end of a harpoon. 

          He felt like hitting something. 

          It was a sad day when getting his own way made him feel this guilty.

          He went back to his paperwork, smarting still, and wondering unkindly whether Larabee had suckered him.   

          Whether he'd made the right decisions. 

          And whether he'd lost both of his most effective detectives—or saved them. 

          Only time would tell. 


End file.
